


Like A Virgin

by FreshAfterDark, nastea



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Coming Untouched, Creampie, Dirty Talk, First Time, Fluff, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Steve Harrington Has a Big Dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:22:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21624481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshAfterDark/pseuds/FreshAfterDark, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastea/pseuds/nastea
Summary: Billy has an appetite for something else tonight. Something Steve couldn’t have possibly anticipated, or else he wouldn’t be looking up at Billy, wide-eyed and dumbstruck, when Billy says:“Tonight I’m gonna let you fuckme.”
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 58
Kudos: 587





	Like A Virgin

“Tonight’s your lucky night, Steve.” 

Billy’s grin is wicked, his eyes glinting with a spark of manic thrill. It’s a good look on him, and he fucking _knows it._

Steve is swallowing harshly as he stares up at Billy, tense and still as if held captive by his stare, and pinned in place by Billy’s knees bracketing his thighs. He doesn’t look put out about it, though, doesn’t even try to _pretend_ like he is. Billy has already got him worked up; he had started the moment he walked through the Harringtons’ front door, making out with Steve in the dimly lit foyer and all the way up the stairs to his bedroom. 

It never takes much to get Steve turned on and stupid, these days. He’s like putty in Billy’s capable hands, hard after a bit of heavy petting and Billy’s mouth against his jaw. Sometimes, Steve even comes with Billy’s fist around his cock and a hand clasped around his throat. 

But Billy has an appetite for something else tonight. Something Steve couldn’t have possibly anticipated, or else he wouldn’t be looking up at Billy, wide-eyed and dumbstruck, when Billy says:

“Tonight I’m gonna let you fuck _me.”_

\--

If there’s one thing Billy hates about Steve, it’s that sometimes he can be so obnoxiously _nice._

Lately more than ever, which is annoying, because Billy isn’t looking to be treated like some blushing virgin when Steve lays him out on his bed. He doesn’t need the gentle touches Steve presses up along his thighs as he helps Billy out of his jeans. He doesn’t need the slow, unhurried pace of Steve’s mouth lapping and sucking around his cock. He sure as hell doesn’t need the fleeting kiss that follows when Steve sits up and leans over him to reach for the bedside drawer. 

It’s all so tender, and Billy fucking _hates_ it — because it’s too raw, because it feels too _good._

“You feeling alright?” Steve asks as he fetches the lube, apparently picking up on _whatever’s_ going on with Billy. Maybe Billy is a little too stiff. Maybe he’s a little too grabby. Maybe Steve has noticed how quiet he’s being.

He just wants Steve to stop being so fucking attentive.

Steve kneels back between his legs, lube momentarily forgotten somewhere near Billy’s hip. He’s already shirtless, pink dusted across his cheeks and the jut of his collarbones, his usually perfect hair tousled and messy, and those big, brown eyes staring down at Billy as he cocks his head to one side. 

Steve’s so fucking pretty, it’s unfair. 

“I’ll feel better once you start touching me again,” Billy says; he’s not sure if that’s true or not. Steve’s never touched him like this before. Neither have any of the girls Billy has wasted his nights with. _No one_ has. Why Steve seems to have correctly assumed this is anyone’s guess, but Billy wishes he hadn’t. That Steve would stop taking his time. 

Billy tells himself it’s the anticipation that has his body buzzing, that he’s irritated because Steve is going too slow. It’s not because Billy is nervous — because he _isn’t._

Steve’s mouth pulls into a displeased little moue, but it isn’t long before he’s dragging his hand along the outside of Billy’s thigh, fingers trailing higher to curl and press into the meat of his ass. 

“I was only gone for a second,” Steve mutters, then flashes a quick little grin, shy like _he’s_ the nervous one when Billy can’t even keep pretending like there isn’t something acrid twisting in his gut. “I didn’t realize you were gonna be so _eager.”_

Just because he's right doesn't mean Steve has to _say it._ Billy simmers in frustration, and tries to tell himself that it's the reason for the heat he feels rising to his face. 

"Shut up," he says, but it lacks any real conviction, falling flat like Billy’s just saying it because he feels he should. 

“Nah.” Steve sounds far too smug for Billy’s liking, but at least he makes up for it by touching him more. He squeezes Billy’s ass, drags his left hand up Billy’s chest, then stops to thumb at his nipple until it stiffens. 

It feels kind of nice, in a way, even if it lacks the rough desperation of a tumble in the backseat of Steve’s car, or a fumbling quickie in the locker room. It’s not often they get moments like this — in a bed, without the looming threat of someone walking in at any given moment. 

But Billy’s not here to be coddled. He wants Steve to fuck him.

“Gonna put me to sleep if you keep taking your sweet time.” That’s not true. They both know it. Billy says it anyway and doesn’t give Steve a chance to correct him as he yanks him down by a fistful of his hair and kisses him hard on the mouth.

Steve makes a sound that’s somewhere between a grunt and a moan, caught off-guard before he can say something snarky because Billy decides at that moment to start using his teeth to tug at Steve's bottom lip and both of them know that Steve is powerless to resist. 

Still, Steve tries to slow it down, dragging his tongue over Billy's and sucking it into his mouth. Billy's fingers tug at his hair because the only other option is to make a desperate, greedy noise. 

He refuses to let Steve know just how much he loves this — the slow, gentle touches, the heady feeling he gets when Steve kisses him like he’s trying to make Billy unravel. It’s nothing like how this usually goes. No biting for the sake of bruising. No shoving and pulling like they’re fighting as much as they’re fucking.

Billy can’t stand it. He can’t stand the way it makes him feel — like he’s frayed around the edges, like he’s _vulnerable._

He shoves hard at Steve’s chest, taking some satisfaction in Steve’s quiet ‘ _mmph!’_ as the air is knocked out of him. Billy follows him, sitting upright so he can press his mouth to Steve’s jaw and scrape his teeth against his skin, burning a trail of mean kisses to his ear and growling against it: “I’m not one of your little high school girlfriends _,_ Harrington.” 

Because apparently Steve needs the reminder.

"Don't think I'd have as much fun if you _were,"_ Steve shoots back, tilting his chin toward the ceiling for the drag of Billy's teeth. He shivers, fingers threading through Billy's hair and tugging it a little. It's not with the kind of force that Billy expects — not the kind of force he thinks he wants — but with some persistent pulling, Steve's got Billy easing off enough that he can get a word in edgewise. 

"We don't _have_ to do this, if you don't wanna."

Billy rolls his eyes so hard they threaten to fall out of their sockets. It sounds like Steve thinks he offered this out of obligation. Like he thinks Billy’s _afraid._ It’s clearly bullshit; so much so that Billy can’t help but feel annoyed by it.

“What, you getting performance anxiety, or something?” he needles, because Billy knows that once he gets Steve riled up, this conversation will end. He hopes it will, anyway. He wants Steve’s hands on him. He wants his mouth. But not Steve’s _words,_ not unless he’s moaning Billy’s name like it’s his new mantra.

 _"No,"_ Steve snaps, shoving Billy off him with a huff and rolling after him. He's not _that_ strong, he isn’t built like Billy is — all corded muscle and wide chest — but Steve is _fast._ Billy must be off his game tonight, because before he knows it, Steve is straddling his lap and leaning down until he’s inches away from Billy’s nose. 

"I'm just—" Steve cuts himself off, exhaling sharply through his nostrils and not quite making eye contact. "Nevermind. Let's just do this, yeah?" 

_"Yeah,"_ Billy agrees, in a way he hopes sounds more impatient than eager — but there's no helping it, because he knows that it's obvious one way or another, if not by his tone, then by the way his cock is slick and leaking pre against his stomach.

It's tempting — so, _so_ tempting — to reach down, get his hand around himself and Steve, and fuck into his palm to take the edge off. But Billy knows if he does, they'll never get to the main course. He knows that Steve is too easily distracted, too easy to excite, and good as it would doubtlessly feel, Billy's looking to scratch a different itch, tonight. 

"C'mon, pretty boy," he says, sing-song and taunting so he can ruffle Steve's feathers, give him that _shove_ of encouragement he so clearly needs — and maybe also give Steve the impression that he's just as cocky and unafraid as ever. "Said I wanted to take that big dick of yours. You gonna give it to me, or what?" 

_“Yeah,_ I am,” Steve insists, plucking the bottle of lube from where he’d left it on the bed like he finally remembers why the hell they’re here in the first place. He clicks open the cap and shuffles backward, smearing a little over his fingers as he settles between Billy’s thighs with a frown of concentration. 

It’s so fucking intimate. The bedside lamp is on and Billy can make out every mole that dots Steve’s jaw and throat and follow the dart of Steve’s tongue as it swipes over his pouty lips. They’ve never done it like this before. It’s always been Steve with his face shoved against a wall, or Steve bent over the hood of the Camaro, or Steve crowded into a tight, dimly-lit corner where they can barely make out each other’s faces, much less where they’re gripping or what they’re scratching. Billy isn’t sure what had compelled him to change what they had. It’s not like Steve had ever complained about it. Not with any real conviction, at any rate.

But it’s too late to back out now, so he keeps his mouth shut. 

Another second passes before Steve finally presses one cold finger against him, and Billy’s so tense with anticipation that he can’t help but hiss. 

“Sorry,” Steve mutters. Billy wants to ask him what the _fuck_ he’s apologizing for, but he can’t summon the words; they’re caught with his breath somewhere in his throat as Steve wriggles his finger, probing the tip of it past the tight ring of Billy’s hole. It feels strange, mostly because it’s cold. Billy chews the inside of his cheek, keeping quiet as long as it takes for Steve to work his finger two knuckles deep before he mutters:

“Could’ve warmed your fucking hand, first.”

"Could've," Steve agrees with a snort, but it isn’t like Billy had ever given him the same courtesy, and anyway, it's warming up already. 

Steve pumps his finger a few times, stretching Billy open until he starts to relax, then adds more lube and starts to work a second one in. His eyes are trained on what he's doing, zeroed in on Billy's hole as he presses his fingers past the tight furl of Billy's sphincter, and he seems so damn _enraptured_ by it, like it's the prettiest thing he's ever seen. 

_"Fuck,"_ Steve mutters as he drags his other hand across Billy's twitching stomach, catching his eye with a quick glance up. "You're so fucking hot."

That’s not news to Billy — it’s not even the first time Steve’s said it — but he still feels something molten twist in his gut, still feels his cock twitch and drool until his stomach’s slick. His erection hasn’t flagged at all despite that Steve hasn’t been touching it, and despite that the the two fingers slowly pumping in and out of his ass don’t necessarily feel good. They don’t feel _unpleasant,_ either — just kind of strange. Billy can’t decide if he likes it or not.

Maybe it would help if Steve wasn’t still taking this so fucking _slowly._

“Hurry up,” Billy urges him, shifting his hips, trying to egg Steve on. “Give me more. I can take it.”

Steve shoots him a look like he doesn't believe him, like he can see through Billy's false bravado. But then there's a third cold finger pressing inside him without warning, and Billy's twisting his hands in the sheets to keep from swearing. 

Steve distracts him, at least, wrapping his free hand around Billy's dick and stroking it in time to the push of his fingers. It's unpracticed and not quite how he likes it, but Billy rocks into Steve’s hand anyway, tilting his head back to stare up at the ugly, popcorned ceiling. 

"C’mon, how often do we get to do this in a bed?" Steve's still talking but his fingers don't stop, occasionally bumping against something inside Billy that makes his toes curl and his breath catch in his throat. 

"Who _cares?"_ Billy fires back, trying to affect nonchalance, because otherwise he might sound needy, instead. And it's bad enough that he _feels_ vulnerable — Billy doesn't want Steve to know just how choked up he's getting from three fingers curled knuckle-deep in his ass. 

The stretch of it aches. It's not more than Billy can take, but it's more than he can take and keep his expression unchanging. He hates that. He hates that Steve can see the way his mouth twists up and parts around every gasp he manages to stifle. He hates that Steve is watching him, too, like there's something interesting on Billy's face, like he enjoys the reactions playing across it. 

Steve squeezes his cock and twists his fingers, and Billy has to bite his tongue just to keep himself from groaning.

He can't stand it, anymore. He's not going to lay there in missionary and take it like some high school bitch getting her cherry popped. He refuses to let Steve keep coddling him. 

So, Billy swats the hand on his dick away, grunts when Steve reflexively pops free his fingers from his ass, and then flips over onto his stomach to hug a pillow against his face. 

"I'm _ready,"_ he says, pushing back his hips in case Steve needs any convincing. "Don't make me wait. I'm not gonna beg for it."

Steve's laugh is startled when it punches out of him. Billy thinks it sounds a little mocking, but that might just be because he's keyed up and half-itching for a fight. 

"I didn't think you were." Steve's voice cuts through the fog in his brain, infuriatingly casual, and his fingers press back inside him before Billy can snap anything in response. It feels good; three is more than Billy has ever tried by himself, but the ache is tempered by the way Steve keeps pressing against this sensitive spot inside him, pausing to rub it until Billy jerks from the pleasure. 

"But I've had girls complain, y'know?" Steve says, adding it like it’s an aside; it almost pisses Billy off that it doesn’t even _sound_ like a humble brag. Like Steve doesn’t feel compelled to talk a big game about his dick, because he knows it speaks for itself.

Billy has a snide comment on his tongue that he can’t quite get out, not when Steve curls and twists his fingers just-so. Burying his face into the pillow is all Billy can do to keep himself from audibly gasping as Steve starts finger-fucking him with slow, deep jabs.

 _Fuck,_ that’s starting to feel good — the kind of good that has Billy moving his hips, just a little, so he can get friction on his dick while simultaneously meeting Steve’s knuckles every time he thrusts them in. 

“Like I said,” Billy grumbles, when he finally musters up the self-control to keep his voice steady. It’s still muffled against the feather pillow, but at least he can get the words out without groaning. “I’m not one of your _bitches.”_

Steve’s fingers slow down and then stop. Billy makes a frustrated sound and keeps rocking back onto them, trying to chase his pleasure.

For a moment, Steve doesn't say anything at all, like he's trying to decide if it's worth it to respond, or like he's too caught up on the way Billy keeps trying to grind back on his hand. 

Steve waits, and waits, and _waits;_ Billy is starting to think he might crack and actually start begging when Steve finally shoves his fingers back inside him and spreads more lube around his hole so that it's wet and messy and _easy._

"Stop acting like them, then," Steve mumbles, sounding distracted, like he's caught up in the way his fingers disappear into Billy's greedy, eager body. "I'm not trying to hurt you."

Billy wants to snap something at Steve for daring to call him a bitch, but the red he sees behind his eyes is quickly dulled by another jab at the spot inside him that has Billy’s gut twinging with pleasure. He bites down a groan, only to hear it escape him instead as a throaty grunt that he manages to mostly bury into the pillow.

It feels good, but it’s not what Billy _really_ wants; he’s had his sights set on that monster between Steve’s legs since he’d first seen it hanging fat and heavy down his thigh in the locker room after practice. Steve’s not just a shower, either; when it’s hard, it’s long enough to reach his belly-button and thick enough that Steve can barely get his fist around it. 

Billy’s rubbed one out just thinking about Steve’s dick far too many times to _not_ act on the fantasy. It doesn’t matter that Steve’s three fingers probably aren’t enough to work him up to it. It doesn’t matter, because Billy isn’t willing to wait. 

Besides, Steve says he doesn’t want to hurt him like it’s a _bad_ thing.

Billy almost wants to make that comment, but he knows better. He knows if he really wants to get Steve to fuck him the way he wants, he’s going to have to get him worked up for it.

It just so happens Billy has a talent for pissing Steve off.

“The only bitch here is you,” he scoffs. “This too much for you, princess? Want me to stretch that pussy of yours out on my dick, instead?”

Billy knows how to rub it in, how to get under Steve’s skin like salt in the wound. He keeps going.

“Bet that’s why you’re so nervous. Bet you can’t stop thinking about how you’d rather be under me right now, _whining_ for it like a little—”

 _"Alright,"_ Steve snaps, cutting Billy off. With a frustrated sounding huff, his fingers abruptly pull away, leaving Billy to clench around nothing at all. At least Steve sounds riled up, now, which means that Billy’s finally going to get what he wants and this can start feeling less weird and more like it's supposed to — more like something rough and meaningless, like just another means to an end. 

"Roll over." Steve shoves at Billy's hip with his sticky, lube-covered hand, but Billy doesn’t budge. He pushes onto his elbows and knees, still cradling Steve’s fancy feather pillow in his arms.

“No,” he says. “Want you to fuck me like this.” 

Steve stops trying to shove him, at least, but his hand is still resting on Billy’s hip and flexing there, like he’s hesitant.

“It’s how I like it,” Billy explains, voice strained with impatience. It’s a lie, because Billy hasn’t ever done this, so how could he possibly have a preference? But he thinks it’ll be easier, this way. That he’ll feel less exposed. 

Besides, he doesn’t think he could stand staring up into those big brown doe eyes the entire time.

There's a sigh from behind him, then the click of the lube cap, and Billy allows himself a moment of smugness at the fact that he's clearly won. He wonders, briefly, what the hell Steve is doing back there that takes him so damn long. The soft, wet sound of skin on skin is telling, and he almost wishes that he'd stayed on his back just to watch Steve stroke lube onto that fat cock of his.

He always makes the prettiest face, after all: jaw slack and eyes glazed over and skin flushed pink. 

But on his back felt dangerous, even for that kind of view, so Billy contents himself with the fantasy, instead, while Steve slicks up his cock and finally, _finally_ guides it between his cheeks.

 _"Shit—"_ Steve swears, teasing it over Billy's hole before he gives a tentative little push. Billy flexes his thighs and grips the sheets and chokes a sound until it dies in his throat, but Steve doesn't even seem to be paying attention as he works himself into Billy one slow inch at a time. 

It feels _huge._

 _"Fuck,_ you're so tight," Steve mutters, awed. _"Fuck._ You feel so damn _good."_

Billy knows this; he knows first-hand just how good it had felt fucking Steve's tight, virgin hole. He remembers how Steve’s ass had clenched around him to the point of pain. How Steve had hissed and told him to take it out, the first time, after Billy had only managed to work in the tip.

Steve is bigger than he is, but Billy's no pussy. He can take it. He grits his teeth through the pain as the thick head of Steve's cock pops inside, as it pushes deeper, the drag of it against Billy’s insides slow and agonizing. The burn has Billy's eyes stinging, has him digging his fingers into the pillow, has the whole line of his back pulled taut as he tries to silently bear it.

The thing is, Steve’s pushing and pushing and _doesn’t stop pushing,_ even when it feels like there’s no possible way he has more cock left to feed Billy’s hole, even when Billy is sure he’s about to bottom out. But he doesn’t, and as big as his dick looked — as fat and heavy as it felt in Billy’s mouth all the times he’s sucked Steve off — he’s never really, fully appreciated the size of it until this very moment.

Which is fucking inconvenient, because Billy is half-tempted to ask Steve to slow down. And wouldn’t _that_ be hypocritical?

But then, finally — after what feels like a small eternity later — Steve bottoms out, the bony crests of his hips flush with the swell of Billy's ass. Billy doesn’t move, frozen still like he’s afraid to.

He twists his fingers in the sheets. Maybe, if Billy’s lucky, he'll tear some holes in the expensive covers, get some revenge for whatever the hell Steve is doing that makes him feel like he's burning, like he's gonna turn inside-out or split at the seams and never come together again. 

Never mind the fact that Billy had asked for — no, _demanded_ — this.

Steve seems to sense that something is off. He stops moving, and Billy can just imagine him back there, chewing on his bottom lip so he doesn't open his stupid mouth and ask if they should stop. 

They're both motionless and silent, save for Billy's ragged breathing and the rasp of Steve's palms as he drags them over Billy's sides, tacks them to his hips, and squeezes like he's asking for permission. 

Billy takes in a long, shuddering breath and steels himself for what he knows is coming next. He bows his head toward the pillow, rolls his shoulders, then grinds back against Steve’s hips, slow and indulgent.

 _Fuck,_ it aches, but the sound Steve makes when Billy pushes against him — that high, choking whimper — it _does_ things to Billy. It makes his cock, which had gone soft from the inattention, start to fill again. 

_“Move,”_ he urges, and braces himself for it.

Steve doesn’t need to be told twice. He rocks his hips, pulling out scarcely more than an inch before pushing back inside. It’s like fucking fire, burning Billy from the inside out until his fingers tremble where they grip the sheets, until his shoulders sag and his teeth sink into the pillow. Steve has barely moved and Billy already feels like he’s about to fall apart. 

But Steve keeps making these fucking _noises,_ is the thing. It’s like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, and they’re so fucking hot — the little whimpers and whines and hissed curses from between his teeth — that Billy will be damned before he does anything to stop them. 

Besides, he isn’t going to tap out. Not _now._

It’s all Billy can do not to make a sound; he knows whatever leaves his mouth right now is going to be embarrassing, that it might make Steve stop, and Billy won’t let that happen.

Even if part of him thinks that maybe, _maybe,_ it shouldn’t hurt so fucking much.

Billy digs his teeth deeper into the pillow and clenches his jaw as Steve continues grinding his hips. Because that’s all he can seem to do — grind them, in little shallow thrusts, like Billy’s too tight to move any more than that. And that’s fine — that’s _good,_ even, because it gives Billy time to try and adjust, to try and get used to the drag of Steve’s cock inside him, to the too-much stretch of it.

The seconds drag on and Billy actually _does_ adjust. Or, he thinks he has, until Steve starts fucking into him a little harder and deeper, and the pain of it makes Billy’s back arch. 

It’s the unexpected jolt of pleasure he feels that finally has Billy breaking his stubborn silence.

 _“Shhhit,”_ he slurs into the pillow, shoving it against his face as the sensation shivers through him, intense and unfamiliar. He knew there had to be a reason Steve liked getting fucked so much, but that— _that_ was not what Billy had expected. 

When Steve ruts into him a second time, Billy can’t stop himself from gasping.

“You alright?” The way Steve asks it — his voice slurred and his hips going still like he’s not sure if he should continue — make Billy’s ears burn red. He’s fucking _fine,_ he wants to snap. He wants to curse at Steve for even _thinking_ about stopping. But he can’t trust his voice not to crack. He can’t trust his breath not to catch at the way Steve’s hand drags down his back or the way his thumb settles at the base of his spine, resting there like he doesn’t fucking know that every inch of Billy’s skin is a goddamn livewire. Like Steve doesn’t realize that every touch is sending sparks of _something_ straight to Billy’s dick. 

He grunts, then bears back, rocking himself against Steve rather than answering his stupid question. It takes a lot of self-control not to groan at the sensation — the fullness, the ache, the pressure against something that makes Billy’s head swim. He clutches the pillow tighter and sets his teeth against the fabric, as if that might help him keep quiet.

And it does, at least at first. At least until Steve starts fucking into him again — slowly, then with sharp, quick thrusts that have Billy futilely trying to bite his moans against the pillow. The hurt is starting to feel kind of _good,_ and it turns out Billy has a much harder time grinning and bearing the pleasure than the pain.

“S’good, isn’t it?” Steve asks from somewhere over his shoulder, jerking his hips again in _that_ way; it makes Billy’s toes curl and his chest ache with the need to make some kind of noise. He suffocates whatever threatens to spill out and only grunts in response, teeth still sunk into the pillow and something wet gathering at the corners of his eyes. 

Steve doesn’t let up, though, undeterred by Billy’s deliberate silence. 

“You feel so damn good, baby,” he mumbles, hands dragging down to Billy’s hips. Steve’s thumbs dig into the meat of his ass, pulling his cheeks apart like that’ll give Steve enough room to fuck in deeper. 

Maybe it does, because all of a sudden Steve does _something_ — snaps his hips into Billy at a certain angle — and Billy lets out a sound that makes him equal parts furious and ashamed. It’s a high, breathy whimper, forced out of him before he can stop it and followed swiftly by more muffled gasps as Billy tries to gag himself with the cotton pillowcase. 

Shame burns at him, twisting in his stomach like it might make him sick, but it isn’t enough to stamp out the pleasure he’s feeling. It feels like it’s being forced out of him, like every time Steve jerks his hips it rips an unwilling gasp or muffled groan from Billy’s chest. It’s like he’s helpless to it, and that’s as exhilarating as it is terrifying.

Billy tries to ground himself, tries to find some composure despite how wrecked Steve is making him feel.

“Yeah?” Billy says, pressing his cheek against the pillow so he can try to catch his breath. It’s a challenge to keep his voice from wavering, but Billy clutches tightly at the sheets and tries for bravado. “Better not bust too early, Harrington. Don’t wanna leave me unsatisfied, do you? Might not let you do this again.”

“You like it,” Steve accuses breathlessly, and Billy can’t say anything without lying, so he doesn’t say anything at all. Instead, he grips the sheets tighter as Steve finds a good rhythm to fuck into him, snapping his hips in a way that brings them together with a wet slap of skin on skin. 

Billy tries to hold on, panting against the pillows and groaning every time Steve’s big dick brushes against that overly sensitive spot inside him. Billy thinks he might cum just like this — just from the pressure and the ache that sits low in his gut — but before he can clamp a hand around himself to keep from popping off too early, Steve’s slowing, stopping, and breathing hard against his spine. 

_“Shit,”_ he hisses, pressing a sloppy kiss against Billy’s shoulder. “Shit, shit— _shit,_ you feel so _good,_ baby. You ever touch yourself like this?” Steve mindlessly asks, plowing on with a little grind of his hips before Billy can say anything. “You ever get your fingers all wet and touch yourself and think about me? ‘Cause— ‘cause _I_ do. Think about you all the damn time.” 

Billy won’t admit it. He _can’t_ admit it. He doesn't want Steve to know about those times he'd thought about Steve's cock while awkwardly scissoring two Vaseline-slick fingers into his ass. It's humiliating enough that he's taking it on his hands and knees, whining every time Steve fucks into him just-right. 

_“God—”_ Steve pulls himself up, hands planted on Billy’s hips, and forces a gasp out of him with a hard thrust. “—it’s like you’re _made_ for me, baby.” 

Billy’s ego is all kinds of bruised, and it leaves him conflicted — because he fucking _loves_ this, loves the pain-pleasure of it, loves all the stupid fucking nonsense Steve keeps cooing at him. 

Billy kinda loves the idea of getting Steve to stop talking, too.

He reaches back blindly, following the sound of Steve's voice to his big head of hair and grabbing a fistful of it. Then Billy yanks Steve forward, close enough that he can crane his neck back and capture his lips in a kiss that's less sucking face than it is biting.

Steve makes a startled noise but he leans into it anyway, hunching forward awkwardly and forced still because there's really nowhere for him to move without getting his hair pulled in a way that Billy knows Steve doesn't like.

At least it shuts him up for a minute. 

Steve catches himself with his hands on either side of Billy's and finally bites back, grinding his hips as much as he can in this position. Eventually, Billy has no choice but to loosen his grip, his biceps burning and gut aching from the way he's twisted. 

Steve takes the opportunity to pull away, pull out, and shove at Billy until he's rolling onto his back, until Steve can slide between his thighs and kiss Billy the way _he_ likes it — hot and desperate and a little sweet.

Then Steve’s slipping back inside like he never left, and Billy can’t help but shudder all around him, fingers scrambling for his back and digging welts into his shoulders that Steve will wince and bitch about later. 

For now, all Steve seems to care about is fucking into Billy, hard and _deep,_ and while the angle's different, Steve still manages to keep hitting that spot that makes Billy's body clench and his vision swim.

It helps, he thinks, that Steve's stomach occasionally grinds against his dick — especially when Billy sinks his heels into Steve’s ass to coax him closer. Steve just keeps on kissing him until it's overwhelming, until Billy feels like Steve is trying to crawl into every part of him, making him feel all warm and perfectly, unbearably _full._

Steve’s cock bumps up against that spot again, and the pressure has Billy whining through his clenched jaw. He reaches down to desperately jerk himself off, because he can feel his orgasm barrelling toward him like a fucking runaway freight train.

But Steve’s suddenly pushing into him with a particularly brutal snap of his hips, and it hits — it hits him _hard —_ before Billy can even get a hand around his dick. 

He doesn't realize what’s happening, at first. He's never gotten off without his hands or a mouth or a hole to fuck into. He’s never gotten off without some kind of friction around his cock. So, Billy almost thinks he's pissing himself when he feels something warm and wet splatter across his abdomen. Because it just keeps _going,_ longer than any orgasm he’s ever experienced; pleasure courses through Billy’s body in waves, spreading through him like a wildfire, until Billy forgets himself — if only for a moment.

Both hands leap to Steve’s face, cradling it between his palms, and Billy muffles his groan into Steve’s mouth as he forcibly kisses him back. He feels Steve start to slow down, feels him shif like he's going to pull away and say something stupid, so Billy bites his lip and clamps his legs tighter around Steve’s waist, shivering through the aftershocks and forcing Steve closer, until Steve is smearing Billy's cum between their stomachs.

Steve breaks the kiss with a groan and shoves himself back inside, his dick nudging against that spot again. It's so fucking sensitive that Billy can't help the way he shivers, toes curling and breath hissing out from between his teeth. 

"Jesus — you — _fuck,"_ Steve sounds like he's in awe, peering down between them at the mess he's made — and it really is a mess _he_ made, as much as Billy hates to admit it — with a stupid grin plastered all over his stupid, pretty face.

Billy groans, flinging his arm over his face because he can feel it growing hot as red creeps across his cheeks and down his throat. He wishes he had it in him to make some kind of snarky comment so he can knock Steve down a peg or two before any of this goes to his head.

But it’s probably too late for that, and Billy's fucked out and oversensitive and trying, desperately, not to whimper like a bitch every time Steve fucks into him. 

So, he bites his tongue and squeezes his eyes shut and urges Steve on faster with his heels pressed against his ass. It’s one thing that Steve outlasted him, but Billy doesn’t think his pride could take it if Steve lasts much longer. 

"I can't believe I made you _cum_ with just my _dick."_ Steve doesn't seem to know how to keep his damn mouth shut. Billy pretends like he doesn’t hear him — because it doesn’t sound like Steve’s even aware of the words that are tumbling out of his mouth.

“Fuck— _fuck.”_ He hunches over Billy’s torso, plants his elbows on the mattress, and finds Billy’s other hand, clutching it while he chases after his own orgasm. Steve drives himself into Billy’s oversensitive body until Billy is whimpering, until his chest is heaving and he can’t decide if he’s into it or if he wants to shove Steve off and tell him to finish himself off with his own damn hand.

He doesn’t have time to decide; Steve thrusts his hips a handful more times, then makes this desperate noise — this high, broken-off moan — that Billy is already determined to hear again. Then he cums, face buried in Billy’s chest and fingers tightly squeezing where he’s locked their hands together.

Billy is acutely aware of every single sensation, right then: of the weight of Steve as he practically collapses across Billy’s chest with a few more lazy rolls of his hips; of the way Steve’s dick is still stretching him to the point of aching even as it starts to soften; of the wet, warm feeling of the mess Steve has made inside him.

Billy feels used in the best fucking way. It’s why he doesn’t complain when Steve squirms a little closer, gets his face against the juncture of his shoulder, and languidly mouths at Billy’s neck until they’re kissing again. It’s slow and sloppy, because they’re both still panting hard and Billy’s more intent on getting his tongue in Steve’s mouth than letting their lips brush.

Billy _does_ complain, however, when Steve’s cock slips out of him. He grunts in protest, feeling loose and sore and hollowed-out; he thinks Steve should have just stayed inside him a while longer before he eased out of him, because now Billy feels raw, again. Because, filthy as he feels, it’s still so fucking _intimate_ when Steve kisses at the corner of Billy’s mouth and squeezes at his hand while his cum trickles, warm and sticky, out of Billy’s ass.

Steve doesn't seem to notice the way Billy's mouth curls into an automatic grimace. He doesn't even look put-out when their eyes meet and Billy sneers at him. Instead, Steve’s smiling.

He looks so fucking _pretty,_ right then — Billy hates that that's his first thought — but he can’t seem to help it, not with the way Steve is grinning with his hair plastered to his forehead, with his cheeks stained pink from exertion and arousal, with his eyes dark and glassy. 

"You're so _hot."_ Steve says what Billy's thinking, kissing him again, and shifting just enough to get a hand between them. "That was so fucking hot. _God."_

Steve sounds so damn pleased with himself as he strokes his fingers down Billy's chest, over his still-heaving stomach and soft cock, then between his spread thighs. One finger pets lightly over his swollen pucker like Steve isn't sure if he’s allowed. He looks up at Billy with the prettiest of pouts, big brown eyes and cherry-pink bottom lip pinched between his teeth like he’s asking for permission. And Billy doesn’t say anything, but he also can't bring himself to put up a fight when Steve scoops his own cum where it trickles out of Billy’s ass and then pushes it back inside his body with two fingers.

He'll tell himself later the reason he sighs like that, the reason he closes his eyes, is because his body still feels so damn _sensitive._ It isn’t because Steve is still watching his face as he scissors two fingers inside Billy, working cum and lube out of him before pushing it sloppily back in. 

Billy isn’t about to admit how good it feels, how warm and pleasant and light his head and body feel. How all of Steve's breathy praises make the heat in his stomach smoulder and his heart to do something strange in his chest.

"Not bad for your first time," Billy says, after a long moment spent silently relishing the afterglow. He cracks his eyes open and hopes the smirk on his face is halfway convincing, that it's not all disgustingly warm and fuzzy like how his insides currently feel. 

Steve snorts. He's stopped fucking his fingers into Billy, but he still keeps them in there, buried to the second knuckle like he's trying to stop his cum from dribbling out.

"Wasn’t my first time," he mutters, mirroring Billy's smirk with a lazy grin of his own. Then he’s nuzzling the side of his face against Billy’s chest like he's planning to cozy up right there for the night. Billy almost doesn't mind, until Steve opens his damn mouth again. 

"Was it yours?" 

Saying _‘no’_ would be such an obvious lie that Billy thinks he’d be better off not answering at all. Because he sure as hell isn’t going to confess it, even if Steve already knows.

And he _must_ know; he looks too smug _not_ to.

Billy rolls his eyes, realizes that Steve can’t see it, and then audibly huffs like Steve’s just asked him a stupid question.

“What do you _think?"_ he says, trying to save face.

He can hear the amusement in Steve's voice when he answers. 

"I _think—"_ Steve pulls his fingers out slowly and wipes them clean on Billy's thigh. “—I think it doesn't really matter." 

It's not the ridicule Billy expects, but he's gearing up for something anyway when Steve rolls off of him. He’s surprised when Steve instead kisses the corner of his mouth and then stretches toward the nightstand for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. 

"You want one?" Steve asks. There’s nothing hostile about the offer or the calm in the air between them; it knocks the wind right out of Billy’s sails, until he’s left feeling drained and naked and stupidly vulnerable. 

Billy doesn't even say anything — he can't manage to find his voice — so he just nods and stares at the ceiling and thinks that maybe, _maybe,_ they should do this again tomorrow night.

**Author's Note:**

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